


Come Away

by Smith



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dalish Culture, Dalish Elves, Fantastic Racism, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5047186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smith/pseuds/Smith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In twentieth century Thedas, Dorian Pavus, heir to the Pavus lyrium fortune, is reluctantly accepting that he must settle down, forsake his dalliances with young men, marry a suitable wife, and take over the family business, as is expected of him. There are no other options, and thirty years of resistance has exhausted him.</p><p>While he is busy attempting not to defame the Pavus name any further than he already has, his dearest friend invites him to a newly-settled Dalish camp for their Summerday festival, and he meets a young man who makes him forget who he's supposed to be. Straying from the path again, he finds the woods are lovely, the wolves are friendly, and there are worse things than getting lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Away

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14317.html?thread=53850093#t53850093) on the DA:I kink meme:
> 
> _"So I really want to see an AU that's set in a modern or not-quite-modern world, except the Dalish elves (and possibly elves in general) are there. A!A can choose whether to humanize them or leave them as elves, but I think elves in a modern-ish world could be really interesting. Either way, they basically are that world's version of Romani - nomadic, misunderstood, historically persecuted and basically unwelcome wherever they go._
> 
> _Dorian, being the sole heir to a title, sits on almost the entire opposite side of the social spectrum. Somehow he and Lavellan still meet. (Who know, maybe Felix was curious about the culture and Dorian gets dragged along?) While they don't get on at first - mostly due to cultural misunderstandings and just plain bad communication - pretty soon the two are sneaking off way more often than they should to meet each other."_
> 
> I may have played fast and loose with the OP's request of modern-ish and it settled somewhere amongst various early to mid-twentieth century sensibilities with a little twist of lyriumpunk, but this idea dug in deep immediately and didn't let go. While I haven't had as much time to work on it as I'd like, going was always going to be slow and it is still very much alive.

Dorian finds himself on the other side of town, where the river splits into streams and tributaries that twist and wind through the trees. The footpaths and bridges are easy to lose, and there's one spot he seeks time and time again when he simply needs some space.

The Pavus Summerday Ball is a scant three days away, and his mother is beyond insufferable. She's already fired the caterers and the band today, the florist yesterday, and father has rehired them all behind her back. The argument is coming, and Dorian would rather spare the headache.

Resting his bicycle against a tree, Dorian stretches out and glances around until he finds his favourite low-hanging branch. His mother will fuss if he stains his linen trousers, but he is nothing if not fond of riling his mother up when she's already stressed.

With a book, and his lunch, he stretches out under the dappled canopy and opens his dog-eared copy of Hard In Hightown.

Time slips by without him, as he turns pages and sips wine, occasionally tearing into his soft baguette with his teeth, and crumbling off a morsel of goats cheese.

It isn't until he hears the approaching barking of an excited dog that he looks up, and finds from his perch he has an excellent view of a young man by the river's edge stripping out of his clothes. As he turns his head, silhouetted against the green fields behind him, Dorian takes note of the large, elven ears.

With both eyebrows arching, he can't help sliding a finger into his book and letting it close, watching the stranger's shoulders hunch as he pulls off his shirt to reveal wiry arms and a tanned back streaked with scars. Dorian frowns, but it eases as the elf slides his thumbs into the hem of his breeches and begins to nudge them off his slender hips.

The dog bounces around him until he picks up a stick and flings it into the water, and the beast follows with a monstrous splash.

The elf laughs, and turning towards the river, Dorian can see the dark markings on his face, sweat and the sunlight reflecting off the water making them gleam. Dorian sips his wine. He'd heard elves were nearly hairless, but is pleased to find this stranger has a dark dusting down from his navel to his pubic hair, and some dark fluff under his armpits.

He's then given a spectacular view of the elf's ass as he tugs his breeches off his ankles one by one and tosses them aside.

Dorian sips his wine again, though his glass is running low. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards the sun.

Another colossal splash draws him back to the river, where the elf has dived in and is now playing tug of war with the mutt and its giant stick. He stands up to find purchase on the riverbed, and water runs in rivulets down his chest, glinting in the light.

Dorian can't look away. Pure curiosity, you understand.

He watches until the elf finishes swimming and rollicking with his dog and lies down in the meadow to nap. Then Dorian sneaks away, walking his bicycle back to civilisation, and trying not to think of the wild.

-

"One day, Dorian," Halward says, "All of this will be yours."

Dorian lifts his head from his book and glances out of the window. The cool office sits high above the refinery, away from the glowing hearth of molten lyrium, as sweaty workers with minimal safety gear dart around beneath them like insects.

Dorian shrugs and yawns, returning his attention to his book. Halward rarely drags him to the refinery, but today he requires the display of power his office here provides. At least it's not the mines, where filthy bodies glisten like the mineral they labour for as the sun glares down at the height of summer. Dorian cringes, even now, imbued with the horror of his thirteen-year-old self seeing for the first time scarred, overladen shoulders, breaths heaving against protruding ribcages, guards wilting in leather uniforms with batons and whips on their belts.

 _"They don't know anything else,"_ Halward had said, _"What else could they do? They need work, we provide work."_ And Dorian swallowed it down, as he did with every precious wisdom from his father's lips, despite the _'we'_ tightening a curious sort of nausea just above his stomach.

Dorian's fingers unconsciously tighten on his book.

"You do yourself no favours," Halward says.

Dorian shrugs, turning a page. "My great burden to bear, father."

"Dorian, if you-" Halward is, thankfully, interrupted by Magister Mercator.

Dorian catches snippets of their conversation between reading the same paragraph over and over again.

"Don't get me started on those heathens," Mercator is saying, "they're already thieving and spoiling the neighbourhood. My brother-in-law had his bicycle stolen, and their dogs have already mucked up the green, where good working-class _children_ play. It's unthinkable."

"Such a shame," Halward agrees. "And there's no way we can simply evict them?"

"Not while they're on Archon's land of course, but I'm sure someone will find a loophole to save our fair city, they usually do. I recall our dear Sartori of Vyrantium had his _vermin problem_ cleared up after a string of littering and vandalism offences."

"I see, I see." Halward nods. "I'm sure we can arrange something similar in due course. But enough talk of vagrants." He pours Mercator a thumb of liquor and hands him the glass. "Let's say what we really mean, shall we?" His dark eyes meet those of his friend. "I hear you made an offer to Aventus."

Mercator's eyes narrow, but he takes a sip of his drink. "It's possible."

"Come now, Mercator," Halward murmurs as he walks to the window and gazes down at the cornerstone of his empire. His lips curl at the view. "Was he receptive to the offer?"

Mercator rolls the next swig around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. "Officially, he declined, but he was considering it."

"Good," Halward murmurs with a growing smile. "Good. I'm going to need you to take a step back, feign cold feet."

Mercator sighs. "I had sincerely hoped you wouldn't ask me that."

"You know how our friendship works, Mercator. Leave the Aventus mine, and I'll make it worth your while."

Mercator appears to suck on his tongue. Dorian is observing the exchange out of the corner of his eyes.

"Fair enough," the man finally says. "I will concede my informal claim."

Halward rests a hand on Mercator's shoulder and smiles, broad but reserved, as is his way. "Smart choice." He finishes his drink. "Now let's get out of here. How does a round of Wicked Grace strike you?"

"Any excuse to take your money, Pavus," Mercator replies with a smirk.

"Naturally." As he leads his friend to the door, Halward pauses. "Come, Dorian. Don't dawdle."

With a laboured sigh, Dorian stands, and reluctantly follows his father down to the car, where their driver awaits to take them back to the city.

-

"Livia," Dorian greets, and struggles to stop his lips curling into a sneer.

"Dorian," she replies with a thin smile. "How good to see you." They share kisses on either cheek.

"Likewise," he murmurs, and the two of them move to the centre of the dance floor, already the focus of so much attention. Dorian had considered, for a brief moment, abandoning his mother and letting her suffer the embarrassment, but his father promised him an excuse if he played along for this first dance, so he obliged. Freedom is always worth a little pageantry, and he is used to trading his dignity.

The steps fall flawlessly, rehearsed in heads and hearts, though never his own. Livia's dress rustles and Dorian fills his skull with the sound of his teeth grinding together in an attempt to drown it out.

"Will you be attending the Alexius charity ball in Ferventis?" Livia asks, her eyes a darker green against the green-gold sheen of her mask.

"Possibly not. Alexius and I are still not on good terms." 

"No one has been able to talk any sense into him," Livia says. "He may have to sell his holding." Her perfect veneer of civility never falters as she smiles at a passing friend twirling in the opposite direction. "Rumour has it, the Venatori have already made an offer."

"It wouldn't surprise me." As he turns, he finds a familiar pair of eyes in the crowd, and almost smiles.

The dance comes to an end, and they step away from each other with polite nods. There is demure applause, and Dorian reaches a small sigh of relief now their contact is over until the next social occasion. He's free to seek the bar.

As he waits for the attendant to pour him a glass of wine, a familiar person slouches against the counter beside him. "You're not needed, are you?" Felix asks.

"Probably." Dorian takes his glass and thanks the waiter.

"Anything so pressing it'll prevent you from slipping away with me?"

Dorian grins. "Not at all." He sips the wine, rolls it around in his mouth. "Tell me, are you officially meant to be here?"

"This time?" Felix tilts his head and smiles at the full ballroom. "Yes, actually. I talked father into allowing me to attend so I could dance with Octavia, doing our share of keeping up appearances."

"That's all these things are good for," Dorian murmurs. "And how will you explain that you _didn't_ dance with Octavia?"

"Well, if your mother wasn't so eager to parade you around, we might've had a chance to dance first. But as it is, I can spin a story about feeling ill."

"Do you?" Dorian's brows furrow, the concern apparent.

"Not today." Felix offers a smile, but it's as thin and only for Dorian's benefit.

Dorian looks away. "You know Livia and I have to be seen in public touching one another at least once a month otherwise father can't keep up the charade."

"Figured out how you're going to get out of that yet?"

"Continue being a pain in the arse until I get disowned."

"I think I can help with that." Felix smiles, now genuine, and nods towards the servants' entrance. "Let's go."

Dorian follows his friend without hesitation and they slip through the kitchens. He downs his wine when they hit the rear courtyard and flings the glass off behind him where it shatters against the wall.

Felix hops onto his motorcycle and hands Dorian a helmet.

"Must I? This will ruin my hair."

"Hey, you're the one who still has the rest of his life ahead of him."

Dorian's lips downturn at the corners, and he climbs onto the back of the motorcycle, strapping the helmet under his chin. "Where are we going?"

"You've heard about the Dalish, right?" Felix fixes his own helmet.

"Yes." Dorian rolls his eyes. "It seems to be the hottest topic of conversation today."

"It's Summerday eve, they have a bonfire, beer, music, and as much elfroot as you can smoke."

"Ah, I see," Dorian says with a smirk. "I wonder what could _possibly_ be the draw?"

Felix grins, and then Dorian is clinging to him as they speed away from the Pavus Estate.

-

The smell of smoke rises over the briny tang of the sea as they near the riverside fields, and they see the Dalish fires, hear the echo of their music, as Felix drives them down the hill to a cluster of bicycles and motorcycles slumped drunkenly around on their stands.

As Dorian removes his helmet and smooths his hair, Felix greets a young elf keeping watch over this makeshift parking lot as if they are old friends, and with a gesture, he then beckons Dorian to follow him across the field. The dry grass rustles against his boots as, nearby, skilful fingers pluck the strings of a lute and a woman croons softly to the moon hanging full and round overhead.

"I'm really not made for fields and ditches, Felix," Dorian says to his friend.

"Just be thankful for the blessing of a few days dry weather," Felix replies and even without seeing his face, Dorian can tell he's smirking.

"Nor am I made for finger food," he says when Felix stops to buy a snack, some measure of bready, deep-fried treat glazed in honey and sugar.

"There are worse things than getting your hands dirty." Felix grins as he takes a bite of the sweet bun and a smear of honey gleams on his nose.

"This is much more my pace," Dorian replies as he moves onto the next cart, handing over more change than necessary and telling the vendor to keep it as he takes his bottles of mead.

Around them, other patrons mill about with paper bags of sherbet and half-sucked liquorice sticks, frosted bottles of ginger beer, and tender flakes of marinated meat folded into flatbreads. Further along, charred fish and slabs of unmelting cheese are being grilled over hot coals and basted with woody herbs dabbed in fragrant oil, and a stall sells jewelled charms, beaded bracelets and quaint animal sculptures.

At the far end of the field, the woods are aglow with firelight, and as he draws near he realises they're staging folk plays. One has just come to an end with a dramatic drumbeat, and polite applause fills the space, which is still rather more rowdy than whatever passed for approval at the Pavus ball.

As they settle, silhouettes move around behind a canvas hung between two trees, and the next tale begins.

"Long ago," an older woman starts, with a deep, proud voice, and wrinkles between the lines of her tattoos, "Our gods warred."

Under a tree, a gaggle of musicians sit or stand, and the hopeful notes of a flute begin to play.

A woman sashays into the clearing, wearing simple, homely clothes, with an older man whose long grey-streaked hair catches the breeze. They are opposed by three young men with coiffed hair and wearing cheap finery, gold jewellery shining around their necks and in their ears.

"The Creators looked after the People," the narrator continues, "They were our guides and guardians, they shared their knowledge, and we knew profound magics."

The woman appears to conjure flowers from thin air, and delicate vines that wind around her arms and blossom near her shoulders, and her companion's robes begin to glow. No doubt through some nifty piece of lyriumtech, Dorian suspects.

"But the Forgotten Ones preyed upon us, upon our hopes and dreams, twisting them and using us for their own pleasure."

The man leading the finely dressed Forgotten Ones hangs a crystal from between delicate fingers, and as it turns, a small blizzard swirls around it, invigorated by the sound of a faraway wind.

"And they fought a great and sinister war, timeless and endless. Their differences could never be settled."

The Forgotten Ones leap towards the Creators, blows arcing and sweeping like dance moves, as the Creators artfully defend and dodge.

"And then," the narrator pauses, and the actors scramble apart, "There was one who was neither."

The oil lamps around the clearing are dimmed by stagehands, and a howl tears through the suddenly-silent air. Dorian feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Silhouetted against the bonfire, a man crouches, his head tilted back as his chest and throat strains against the otherworldly sound. A lupine mask covers his eyes and nose, long ears studded with silver underneath erect canine points, and its pelt covers his hair and trails down his back.

"Fen'Harel," the narrator whispers, but it reaches every one of them, "the Dread Wolf." The words hang in the air like a spell, and the crowd is mesmerised.

"Kin to our Creators, a would-be ally in their fight against the tyranny and debauchery of the Forgotten Ones, he was so cunning, he earned the trust of them all. He would steal the secrets of the Forgotten Ones and use them to amuse himself, and he would enjoy the privileges of the Creators knowledge and, perhaps, their love for the People."

The wolf stalks into the clearing where the gods are fighting, long fingers curling around the collar of a finely-dressed young man, and kissing him, long and slow. Then he slinks towards the maternal woman, sharp shoulder blades arching through the fur that clings to him like his own skin.

"We barely remember the names of our gods, and our demons, let alone who struck first, who was wrong... But we know the wolf."

Then the wolf sidles up to the woman and lingers around her, twirling her hair between his fingers, whispering into her ear and drawing back again. The flautist lets a flickering, lonely note linger and die.

"We don't know why he deceived them both, what wicked thoughts overcame him, but he ended the war. Finally, Thedas was silent, but at a terrible price."

"He told each side that the other had forged a terrible weapon, a blade that would shake and crumble the very bones of the earth. To the Creators, he said it was forged in the heavens."

The wolf tilts his head skyward, and a firework whizzes off into the stars behind him, exploding in a shower of light.

"To the Forgotten Ones, he said it was hidden in the abyss." The wolf opens his palms to the ground, and unleashes a fall of sparks that skitter and extinguish themselves in dampened grass.

"Of course, he was a valued friend, so they listened and they acted, each venturing into the furthest corners of the heavens and the abyss, to find this weapon, to end the war."

"And Fen'Harel turned on them both." The wolf growls and turns on the gods. The Forgotten Ones, he throws to the ground and, with a shovel, begins to bury them.

"With his immense power, he sealed them away. The Creators watched from heaven as the People fell, helpless to aid us, and the Forgotten Ones were left screaming into the abyss."

The Creators, the wolf pushes back to the edge of the clearing, and a shimmering veil unravels from the branches above, cutting them from the audience's view.

"Now he alone is left."

He runs with a hunched, loping stride and leaps atop a crate near the fire, wrapping his arms around himself as he crouches down and begins to cackle and howl at the sky. The rest of the fair has faded as the crowd stands, transfixed and vulnerable to this creature's unfathomable intent.

"Some say he ran to the end of the earth and sat there, clutching himself and giggling with glee over the greatest deception of the ages!"

The wolf hops down from his perch and eyes the crowd, tilting his head to one side, shoulders hunched and hands curled into claws. Even through the mask, they can all feel his eyes on them. The haunting flute is accompanied by the tinny, eerie clink of triangles.

Dorian watches his staccato movements as he draws closer to the audience, the character rendered all the more disturbing by the bizarre, seamless union of animal and man; the pelt heaves with his breaths, but his human skin gleams with sweat.

"But we know he haunts us still," the narrator continues softly. "He hears all, sees all, and if you wish too hard, you may fall prey to the Dread Wolf's barbed promises, and his wicked tongue."

The wolf prowls about the crowd, smiling a devious smile. He touches a woman's hand and a moment later produces her bracelet from behind her ear. A murmur of mild wonder ripples through his spectators, and they bunch together, desperate for a trick of their own.

With a child, he folds a coin into one hand and unfolds it in the other, before gifting it to the boy. A young couple catches his eye, and while he is examining the shiny trinket around her neck, he spirits the husband's watch from his wrist to hers.

Dorian snorts under his breath at the cheap legerdemain, and turns to seek out Felix, but when he looks back, the wolf is in front of him. Dorian breathes shallowly as if facing down a real predator, meeting the eyes in the mask, which are a sky blue even in the dim light, and his pink mouth twists into a grin.

"I hope you realise I won't fall for your-"

All thought is curtailed by a warm pair of lips touching his own, the soft fur of the mask caressing his cheeks. Something deeply spiced lingers underneath the taste of salt and alcohol, long fingers slide along the nape of his neck and settle as their tongues meet, and Dorian catches the scent of the spring forest underneath sweat and damp fur.

When he pulls away, the wolf smiles, warmer and gentler, and then a flash of gold catches Dorian's eye on retreating fingers and he finds the thief has plucked the birthright quietly off his neck.

Scowling, Dorian snatches it back, and by the time he looks up from checking the clasp, the wolf has moved on to perform for others, some of whom gift him coins. Then he is pulling away and running back to the bonfire. He turns and bows, once, twice, to enthusiastic applause.

"And so we dance," the narrator says, "Because to fall is to fall prey, and the Dread Wolf lurks in every moonless night, in every forgotten mirror, listening to the wishes of the People, and plotting their downfall."

With a final flourish, the wolf turns and steps into the fire, vanishing into the night in a shower of sparks and a burst of fireworks overhead.

A smile rises in the narrator's tone, and a note of finality. "Ah, but the People can play tricks, too, among other things."

The band roars into harder, heavier music, drums and guitars overlaying the pipes that soar into the night, and a baritone voice sings, frenetic and strange in their native tongue. The crowd is immediately ensnared, throwing inhibition to the stars as they begin to dance.

As the clamour rises around him, Dorian stumbles back, disoriented. A hand grips his elbow and he turns, only to find Felix smiling at him with bloodshot eyes.

"You put on quite a show there," he says with a grin.

"I aim to please." Dorian bows as low as he can in the bustle of moving bodies and glances the way he assumes the boy had come. "I see you found what you were looking for, I think it's only fair that you share."

"It would be my pleasure." Felix offers his arm as if courting a young lady, and Dorian swipes at him with a chuckle as they walk away.


End file.
